


Don't Let Go

by Shadowolf19



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowolf19/pseuds/Shadowolf19
Summary: Tony is a security guard working in a bank that gets robbed at gunpoint. Although he doesn’t know it, Steve, his boyfriend who has been deployed in Afghanistan for the last eight months, was just about to go in and surprise him when he saw the two robbers take action, and he’s decided to stop them before the situation can degenerate even more.





	Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018/2019 Iron Man Big Bang.
> 
> Check out [the amazing artwork](https://monobuu.tumblr.com/post/185236749524/dont-let-go-author-shadowolf19-artist) Monobuu did for my story!

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have yelled at Jarvis this morning, even though it certainly was within his rights to get pissed off at him: this is the third dead mouse his companion left right by his pillow while he was asleep, and today is just Wednesday. Of course, he knew this could (and would) happen, the people at the shelter had told him this particular breed (Turkish Angora) has a high disposition towards hunting, which would become more evident around the sixth month of his life. Still, Tony had thought that maybe he could teach Jarvis some manners, the respect towards other animals, _especially_ the ones smaller than him. Plus, he figured if he kept him well fed _and_ inside the chances that something like this would happen would be close to zero. _Yeah, right._ So when the sadly now familiar stench woke him up this morning, Tony already knew what was expecting him once he opened his eyes. And sure enough, there it was. _How nice_. What better way to start a double shift day than a dead mouse left right by your nose? That was a rhetorical question, by the way.

Still, as he makes his way out of the car and into the bank, Tony can’t help but wishing he hadn’t behaved like he did, because after his outburst Jarvis had not come anywhere near him until he left, not even whilst he was having breakfast (usually he’d get distracted for a reason or another only to find the kitten either licking butter off his toast or with his tiny paw inside his coffee). He had tried calling him with a soft voice and even a few treats just before opening the front door, but Jarvis hadn’t come anyway, and when five minutes has gone by Tony had had to give up to not be late for work. Still,  his mind has kept going back to the kitten throughout the whole ride, and even now his thoughts are all for Jarvis, home alone for the next twelve hours. _Maybe I can win him back if I get him some tinned fish from the supermarket on my way back_ , he ponders as he starts inspecting both front and back doors, the first step of a fairly long list to tick off before the bank actually opens at 9.

“Morning, Mr. Stark, how are you today?” a familiar voice greets him some time later, just as he’s about to get inside the staff room to wear his jacket and tie, both of which he’s taken off during his routine as the May sun is already quite hot, and he’s prone to sweat anyway. He turns around to see one of the bank’s cashier, a middle aged man with no hair but a very thick mustache, stepping inside the building.

“Good morning, Mr. Grant, I’m not too bad. Got into an argument with Jarvis this morning but other than that… How’s the family?”

“I could say the same thing without even having to lie!” the other chuckles in delight, turning around the corner to the cashiers section to start counting the money. This is a banter they have almost every morning (except for when Mr. Grant is late) and although it barely changes, Tony likes hearing it over and over because it gives him some sort of inside peace just before the dull routine that could change in a split second (but never actually does) starts.

Holster around his waist, bulletproof vest on, at 9 sharp Tony marches out of the staff room and to the floor, giving the okay sign to Mr. Grant as he unlocks the front door before going to sit down in his position behind the window. For some mysterious reason he hasn’t quite figured out yet in over a year of working here, Wednesdays are the second busiest day after Fridays, and although the stream of people takes a while to pick up, there’s usually a steady and constant flow throughout the morning. And with this being the week before Memorial Day, by 12:30 it means two things: one, he hasn’t had a moment to recharge his eyes, so to speak, as they’ve always been on the lookout; two, his stomach is actually growling right now, and for once he cannot wait to see what the nearby deli has in store for him today. He doesn’t usually eat out for lunch – matter of fact, he doesn’t eat during his shift full stop, because he fears food would slow his reflexes down, was something to happen at the bank – but in those rare occasions when he can’t help it, the deli is his number one place to go.  It offers cheap prices and uses good quality ingredients, not to mention there’s a big variety of bagel fillings you can choose from. As he walks down the couple of blocks which separate him from the store, once again Tony finds himself thinking about Jarvis, wishing his house was closer by just so he could go home for lunch and see if the kitten had decided to forgive him.

 

He ends up having to actually _run_ back to the bank because he’s lost track of time during lunch, browsing Amazon first and eBay then to find some sort of micro camera with a live feed he could access using his phone. The idea has come to him all of a sudden, just as he was eating his bagel, overhearing a conversation between two other customers who were discussing pros and cons on getting a similar gadget to monitor their babies once they were born. That had sounded like a solid idea to him, so he’d taken his phone out and started researching them: as it turned out, there were _a lot_ of options out there, so he’d taken a napkin, asked for a pen, and began listing the various options. He had gotten so absorbed by the whole thing that it was only once the waitress had asked him if he was done with his job today that his eyes almost casually fell on the clock wall, and he had discovered that he only had five minutes to go back to work before the bank opened again.

“S-Sorry I’m l-late…” he pants now, once he gets inside, stumbling forward as his knees protest for the impromptu run – although he’s not overweight, Tony really dislikes exercising and tends to do it only once in a while, and even in those cases the good resolution lasts just for an extremely short while. He’s fully aware that sooner or later this aversion is going to come back and kick his ass, but he figures until then, he’s just going to leave it at that.

There’s a soft general chuckle in the office between the other employees, and Miss Goodwin winks at him as if they were sharing a secret – Tony is totally sure that she’s had a crush on him since he first walked in for his interview, fourteen months ago – but other than that, nobody tells him off or seems to take notice of his one-minute delay or the fact that he’s clearly been sprinting all the way down here. That’s one of the reasons why he likes working here, despite the inherent element of danger that a job like this carries along: he gets to be around nice people, have a stable schedule which allows him to work on his side project as well, and the pay is good. Of course, this is not what he wants to do with his life, but hey, when you’re 29 in this century you can’t afford to be just a dreamer, you need cash too in order to survive.

At 2 sharp, Tony unlocks the front doors once again and, after a brief nod to the two cashiers, he takes his position next to it, feet slightly apart and hands behind his back. After the chaos of the morning, he hopes the afternoon will be relatively calm and easy-going, although he’s fully aware this probably won’t be the case, being Wednesday and everything. Still, for the first half an hour it seems that his prayer hasn’t gone unheard, as all but two customers make their way inside, both pensioners who spend most of their visit talking about their grandkids “already off to college next autumn! It seems just like yesterday that they were sitting on my lap hearing stories…” Tony can’t help a soft smile from appearing on his lips as he hears them talking, remembering when he himself was a child and would spend whole afternoons listening fascinated to his grandma’s tales about the boat journey that had taken her grandparents over to America. It was sort of a family tradition and although at the time Tony was only fascinated by his grandma’s voice and her natural talent for storytelling, in more recent years he has often found himself wondering whether he’d be able to recreate that same magic with his kid/s, were he to actually have any. The subject scares him, and not a little – mostly because it comes with the realization that he’s getting older, and on the worst days it feels like he hasn’t achieved much – so he often cuts his thoughts short and focuses on Jarvis instead. Still, he thinks now, it’s something he should probably talk about to—

Something suddenly catches the corner of his eyes, shifting his focus back to the present time and his surroundings; there are a few more people in the queues now, six in total, but that’s not what has got his attention. He take a couple of steps on his left hand-side to get a closer look at the last person in the Miss Goodwin line, and immediately understands why his alarm bells went off. _Wasn’t this man here in the morning too?_ He’s pretty sure he was, which of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything: sometimes people can’t wait for a payment to come in and they keep going back and forth until they receive their money – internet banking hasn’t really picked up around here yet, so most of their customers over forty still make their weekly or monthly trip to the bank to check their balances, collect their wages and such. Tony nods to himself and goes back to his position, telling himself to stop getting lost into his thoughts to avoid having déjà-vu in the middle of a shift.

But as it turns out, Tony’s gut or instinct or whatever you want to call it had indeed picked up on some off vibes of sorts, because ten minutes later, when the guy from the morning reaches the counter, he speaks so loudly that Tony himself can hear his words without a problem – something that wouldn’t normally occur, especially with this many people inside.

“Mr. Field, I don’t know how to tell you, there aren’t enough funds in your account to make this withdrawal. There is nothing I can—“

“I _need_ that money, it’s _gotta_ be there!” comes the angry reply, and Tony takes it as his cue to take a few steps forwards to the counter, smiling at Miss Goodwin, whose face displays a mix of frustration and embarrassment – she told him a couple of times that she can’t take when people _scream_ at her, which is what is happening now.

“Is there a problem?” Tony intercedes, trying to meet Mr. Field’s eyes, but the guy seems settled on ignoring him.

“The _gentleman_ is requesting a $5,000 in cash and I’ve been trying to explain to him since this morning that his account only holds $500, and there’s n—“

But once again her voice gets cut off.

“Then I want a loan!”

“As I said before, the bank can’t pr—“

“You’re just an incompetent bitch! I wanna talk to a manager or something!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Tony intervenes again now, when it’s clear that this is not going to have a peaceful resolution, “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to s—“

But before he can finish his sentence, Mr. Field takes out a .9mm gun from the inside of his jacket and directs it towards Miss Goodwin, who emits a loud shriek of fear and surprise, followed almost immediately by several others once people realize what caused it.

“I want $5000 in cash, now!” the guy yells furiously at her while branding the gun in the air.

Tony, who has been staring at the weapon since it made his appearance, needs a couple of seconds to remember his training and put it into action, so to speak. He shoots what he hopes to be a reassuring glance over at Miss Goodwin, who is trembling like a leaf by now, and then tries to get closer to Mr. Field, but before he can even complete a single step, there’s a deafening noise in the air and this time Tony knows at once that the situation has just taken a turn for the worst, because there is clearly a _second_ gun, and even without turning he can tell the shooter is next to the doors. _This was planned_ , he thinks, a chill of fear running down his spine.

“Tom, what the fuck are you doing!?” Mr. Field screams, making a one hundred eighty turn that sends the gun in his hand so close to Tony’s nose that he can smell the metal.

“He w’s gunna get ya!” said Tom cries out in frustration, and anticipating his move _yet again_ , Mr. Field moves his arm to point his weapon straight to Tony’s face.

“Look, this d—“ he starts, and this time it’s not one, but _two_ voices that interrupt him.

“Shut up!”

“Tony!”

He’s pretty sure his neck would have snapped for how quickly he turned his head when he heard his name being called out by an all too familiar accent, except the movement gets stopped almost immediately by a powerful blow on his cheekbone, which causes him to stumble back, his gaze to fall on the shiny floor.

“Nobody move! We’re not gonna leave until I get my money. So I suggest you start filling up this bag, doll,” he hears Mr. Field say, and although his vision is blurry, he forces himself to stand straight again and try to think of what to do. But no matter how hard his effort, that voice keeps echoing in his ear, making it impossible for him to focus. He blinks to push his dizziness away, and surely enough the gun is still pointed at his face.

“That goes for you too, pal. Next time you try something, you’ll get the other end of the gun, understood?”

He nods – talking is still out of the question for now – and for good measure he puts his hands up to show he has no intention of grabbing his own weapon.

“Good. Now tell your girlfriend here to give me _my_ money.”

He knows that Miss Goodwin is looking at him, he can feel her scared glance, so he turns to her and gives her a brief nod. But if he thought she would fall in line just like that, he was solely mistaken.

“What? Are you _sure_ , Mr. Stark?”

“J-Jean, _please_ , do what he says so we can all go home…” his voice sounds almost like he’s begging, and he doesn’t like that one bit. But it doesn’t come as a total surprise either, because that’s really all he wants right now. For everyone to go home safe. _Especially_ the person who shouted his name. He stares at Miss Goodwin until she caves in, certainly reading the serious look in his eyes and deciding he knows better. _Yeah, right._ Tony is so out of his depth right now that he’s just going with his gut feeling, nothing more. Whilst Jean starts filling up the bag with trembling hands, Tony tries to throw the quickest glance towards the door – he _has to_ be sure about what that voice – but before his eyes can zoom in on anything specific, a powerful, loud slap lands on his left cheek, thus making his head returning to its starting position.

“Pointless for you to think of a plan, boy. You don’t think I don’t recognize that look on your face? Probably never fired a gun before, have ya?” Mr. Field teases him, and of course he’s right, Tony actively _dislikes_ guns. The irony of the job he’s doing and his current situation are not foreign to him.

“That doesn’t mean I’d never do it either, though,” he replies between his teeth although he wasn’t planning on being vocal. And he surprises himself when he hears how _hard_ and _truthful_ his own tone is. He actually means it.

The robber doesn’t indulge him further though, carelessly waving his gun in the air as he warns him: “Not another movement of _any_ part of your body, son, understood?” Tony gives the slightest nod with his head, staying mum, his brain almost yelling at him now that he _needs_ to disobey the order and _see_. “Good,” the man replies, keeping his gun aimed at him but shifting his glance back to Jean, as does Tony, trying to ignore the voice inside his head to come up with some sort of a plan. _Again_.

But the echo of his name keeps coming up, incessantly, like a constant reminder that the person it belongs to _is_ indeed there with him. Although now he’s starting to question whether he imagined it, in the convulsiveness of the situation, or it was actually _real_ , impossible as it sounds. Because unless, unbeknownst to him, he suffers from amnesia or something similar, there’s no reason why that one person would be in town right now, let alone in the bank Tony works at.

And then, just as he tries to make himself believe it has to be an hallucination, it suddenly clicks inside his head what day is today.

May 21st.

Of course.

How could he forget it?

 _It’s not that I forgot_ , he rectifies almost immediately, although the conversation is only happening in his mind, _he said he wasn’t going to make it because his squad had been assigned to a three-day mission so we—_

He stops, shakes his head to himself. He should have known better. Should have guessed that nothing could keep Steve from celebrating their anniversary together, cheesy at it might sound. And that’s not because he’s the romantic kind of guy – he really _isn’t,_ much to Tony’s complain – except for May 21st. All of a sudden everything makes sense, and he doesn’t even need to turn his head to confirm the identity of that voice, because he _knows_ it belongs to Steve. What hasn’t changed is the absolute necessity of ending this situation as soon – and harmlessly – as possible. Still, he has no idea how exactly do that. Pointing his weapon against the man is out of question – the time for that was at the very beginning, not now – and it’s not like he has any useful skills in this particular situation. His favorite hobby is building things, especially engines, but when it comes down to day-to-day stuff he’s quite helpless: he prefers to wing something rather than _plan_ it. His eyes shift on Jean now, to see how she’s doing, and for a brief moment they find each other: she’s trembling like a leaf, silently begging him to take action, and it’s only now that an idea comes to his mind, so obvious and simple that he can’t believe he hadn’t realized this is the only reasonable thing to do. The bank is connected to the police station via an alarm: underneath every counter there’s a tiny button that the cashiers can press without arising any suspicion to send the robbery signal over to both cars and headquarters. If he wasn’t being held at gunpoint, Tony would shake his head and hit his own head at his dumbness, but that will have to wait. Right now, he needs to communicate his plan to Jean without using words, just by silently hinting at the button with his glance, hoping she will be perceptive as he knows she is under ordinary circumstances.

He keeps his eyes on her, looking away whenever Mr. Field turns to him to avoid raising suspicions, whilst praying to whatever god there is up there – if there is, indeed, one – that nobody will get hurt as a result of his attempt.

But as it turns out, Jean needs to input from him to press that button. Once she finishes emptying the till into the bag and passes it over to the robber, Tony detects her free hand casually stopping against the edge of the counter for just a fraction of a second before reuniting with her other one, still holding the bag. _You should be the security guard, Jean_ , he thinks to himself as he smiles in admiration at her, an exchange that unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yeah, yeah, you can kiss her ‘bravo’ later, Romeo,” Mr. Field’s voice explodes in his ear as he grabs his wrist to pull him along, moving in front of the second till. “Let’s speed things up now, shall we?” he then adds, shoving the bag over to Mr. Grant, who doesn’t need to hear it twice, promptly opening the drawer to obey the demand.

Ten minutes – and another till – later, Mr. Field collects the bag for the last time and swiftly passes it over his arms to wear it as if it was a weird rucksack before turning to face his accomplish – and the door. Feeling it’s safe for him to do so, Tony follows his movements, and surely enough he finally gets a visual on the man he _knew_ was there all along. As his eyes meet the azure ones, he can’t help but giving him a frail smile that the other doesn’t reciprocate, knowing all too well it would be a hazard were they to be seen.

“C’mon, Tom, let’s leave this shit hole,” Mr. Field nods to his accomplice, who is still brandishing the gun around as if it was a flag at a 4th of July parade, and the guy pirouettes on himself, taking a couple of steps forward towards the door, expecting it to open promptly. Except it doesn’t happen, because the alarm has triggered a shutdown of the electric grid. Tom tries to push it forcefully instead, but it makes no difference, and he lets out a frustrated whining noise, stating the obvious: “It’s blocked!”

What happens next is so convulsed that Tony completely forgets to breathe, acting all on instinct whilst hoping for the best. Taking advantage of the moment of uncertainty, he launches himself towards Mr. Field in order to secure his gun, figuring neutralizing half of the duo is without a doubt a good start. Unfortunately for him, Tom catches his movement right as he does it, and without thinking about it twice he takes aim and shoots his own gun. In the cacophony of screams and panic that follows, Tony feels a sudden heat followed by a burning sensation coming straight from his right hip, so piercing in fact that for a good two seconds he believes he’s been set on fire somehow. But before he can even lower his eyes to spot what’s actually happened, his legs give way and he finds himself falling very ungraciously on the floor, hitting the white surface so hard that he yells out in double pain. As everything starts spinning around him, he hears that voice – Steve’s – calling his name again, but before he can get his sight to focus on him, more screams quickly follow, because this time Steve doesn’t hold back. Tony sees him charging against Tom, and something about the way he does it is mildly terrifying, because it looks like he has no real control over his body.

“Wanna taste it too, blon—“ Tom begins, but he never finishes his sentence as a powerful punch hits his left cheek, sending him against the wall and immediately on the floor, unconscious, and without wasting any time around, Steve launches himself to gain control of the gun fallen nearby, now without an owner.

“Drop the gun, now!” he yells, this time in Mr. Field’s direction, the man standing just a feet away from Tony’s face.

“Afraid can’t do that, son. Need to get outta here. And _you_ need to take your friend here to the hospital,” comes the answer, so calm amongst all the chaos that just took place that it sounds weird. Tony hates that word – _friend_ – and wants to shout that he’s his boyfriend, but right now it doesn’t matter, and he’s quite sure if he was to actually open his mouth nothing would come out. “You!” he hears the same voice again, “unlock the door, now! Or I’ll start shooting randomly!”

“I can’t do anything from here!” Jean says, her voice slightly shaking, although she sounds to be more in control than him. “Once the alarm is triggered, the only way to unlock it is from the outside.”

Which means the police is going to do it. The realization hits Mr. Field quicker than Tony would have liked: although his sight is blurry now, he can read it in the way the older guy’s body freezes for just a second.

“Look, it’s over, man. You didn’t hurt anyone _yet._ ” Steve’s voice again, less edgy and more controlled now, which soothes Tony, even if just a little, and prompts him to try his best to come to a sitting position, fighting against his own body, whose energy seems to be running out. It’s a very weird feeling that he actively despises.

“You don’t _understand_ , I _need_ this money. My kid… She’s five and has stage three cancer, I…” Tony sees him shaking his head, and for a split second he believes he’s going to surrender. But when he continues, his voice is hard as ever. “I’m walking out of here with _my_ money. I ain’t stealing. It _belongs_ to me.”

“Drop your gun, man. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“You’re military, aren’t you, son? I was in the Marines, fought in the first Iraq war.”

“If you think that’s gonna change an—“

“Of course not!” Mr. Field replies, slightly frustrated, and Tony sees him walking towards Steve; if this wasn’t real life the scene would seem taken straight out of an old western movie, both of men pointing their guns against each other. “Put the iron down, soldier. Your friend needs medical aid as soon as possible. You don’t _want_ me to drag this out any longer, which is exactly what’s going to happen if I _have to_ take a hostage with me.”

As if hearing those words makes his body realize they’re actually _true_ , Tony feels his ability to keep awake will soon run out, because by now his eyes are incapable of focusing, no matter how hard he tries, and shivers are constantly running all along his limbs.

“How do y—“

“I’m a nurse. _Was_.” Steve gets cut off immediately, and although he can’t see his face, Tony can hear the disappointment and – maybe – sadness in his tone. He’s not making this up. “Let me through, soldier. Before the c—“

But the rest of his words get swallowed up by the sirens of the police cars arriving outside and, only a bunch of seconds later, an authoritative voice speaks through a megaphone: “Attention, please. This is the SCPD. You are surrounded. The door is now unlocked, so come out with your hands in the air and nobody will get hurt.”

 _Thank god_ , he thinks instantly, but his relief is very short lived.

“Shit. Okay then, you’re coming with me,” Mr. Field says, his voice dripping with desperation, and just as Tony wonders who the _you_ in question is, he hears a woman’s shriek followed by Steve’s voice.

“Look, I’m putting the gun down, take me instead!”

_Steve!_

“SCPD. You are surrounded. This is your last warning. Place your ha—“

“Very well, son. Let’s go.”

Fighting against every fiber in his body and groaning in pain, Tony forces himself to open his eyes again, and slaps his face as hard as he can in order to get his sight to come into focus. What he sees confirms what he already knew – although he was refusing to believe it – and sends the chilliest shiver down his spine. It’s not just that Steve is being held at point gun – he’s been serving for the last few of years, since they finished college, and Tony has made his peace with the fact that his lover is somewhat _used_ to be in dangerous situations – it’s the fact that he’s about to be walked outside the bank where there’s the whole police department ready to take a shot at the man who’s holding a gun against him. Tony has never been in such a situation, but has seen his share of movies and documentaries about robberies to know this could go very wrong very quickly, and that’s not a chance he’s willing to take. _Especially_ because he somewhat feels responsible. This is _his_ bank, _his_ workplace. It’s _his_ job to protect it, like it or not, which is exactly why he needs to _do something_. Now.

He takes a deep breath before blinking a couple of times to clear his vision, hand reaching out to take his gun out of its holster.

Then takes aim and shoot.

He hears screams and cries and loud voices coming from _everywhere_ in the room, but not Steve’s.

Which is a good sign, isn’t it?

It means he’s not hurt, right?

 _Right_?!

Tony needs his body to work properly again, so he slaps his cheek to get his sight to focus, but he has no strength left, his hand feels weak like a caress against his face and before he realizes what’s happening to him his eyes roll back in their sockets and he loses consciousness, his head falling lifelessly against his chest, unable to witness Steve hurrying desperately towards him.

 

He doesn't need to open his eyes to _know_ Steve is right there by his side. He can tell by his smell, by his eyes that he senses on his body, by the feeling in his gut. And because of all of this, a tiny smile pops up on his lips as he gathers all the strength he can to open his eyes and speak a few words: “W-What are you doing he-here?”

In less than a second Steve is bent over him, kissing his face listlessly, holding his head between his two hands.

“Oh baby, you’re okay, I was so worried…” the other replies, his voice sounding a little hoarse, suggesting that he’s been… well, crying, Tony can’t help but thinking, and the thought gives him goosebumps, because he’s never seen Steve shred a single tear in all the years he’s known him. “Of course I’m here, where else would I be?”

“A-Afghanistan?”

“And miss our five year anniversary? You must be out of your mind…” Steve giggles, shaking his head, his eyes shiny with unspent tears.

“G-Guess so…” he replies, noticing just now that the other’s hand is upon his. So he takes it to his lips to leave a soft kiss on its back, staring at his man in silence and smiling as brightly as he can.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm now taking commissions! So if you like my style and would like to request a fic, feel free to drop me a dm or buy me a ko-fi [here](https://ko-fi.com/shadowolf19), and I'll get to it asap :)
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://shadowolf19.tumblr.com) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Shadowolf19) if you want to chat!


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